I set my fork down and met his eyes. “Get off my back. You think I want to screw this up?” When he didn’t answer I said, “If I wanted to shut this down, all I’d have to do is make a phone call. Same as any of us.” I picked up my fork and stabbed my General Tso’s.
After another moment he said, “Interesting.”
“What’s that?”
“One phone call. That mean you’ve been thinking about it?”
“Excuse me?”
He spoke in measured tones. “Have you been thinking about making a phone call?”
My eyes drifted toward the table. I looked back up again when he said, “That’s what I thought.” He took another bite, stuffing his cheeks with sandwich.
“What do you want, Grant?”
He waggled his finger at me. “Don’t call me that.”
I rolled my eyes. “Sorry, Otis. You want to know if I’ve been thinking about it? Yeah. ‘Course I have. You and Martin? You two had months before you decided to trust each other. Lots of time to feel each other out, decide whether or not you weren’t gonna make a phone call.”
“Not true.”
“Bull crap. You’d have placed that call in a heartbeat if you’d have thought Martin was gonna turn you in. And don’t tell me different, ‘cause I’ve seen how you operate. Do unto others before they do unto you. That’s your golden rule. Just don’t get on my case ‘cause I’ve thought about doing the same thing.”
I took another bite, chewing forcefully before pointing at him with my fork. “Point is: I haven’t. And that ought to be worth something. At the least, it ought to keep me from being accused of deliberately trying to screw this up.”
After a second, a half laugh erupted from his mouth, sending tiny particles of chewed roast beef sandwich onto the table. I wrinkled my nose and scooted my tray away from him.
“God, you’re touchy.”
“Keep your food in your own mouth. Or are you deliberately trying to screw with my dinner?”
He laughed again. “Sorry. So what else happened? This ain’t just the social security number that’s got you upset.”
I swore and put down the fork.
“Come on. Out with it.”
I sank back into my chair. “Up in the tower. With Joan. I called you Grant.”
His silence urged me to continue. I cleared my throat. “She was telling me that I’d pulled duty in the tower on Inauguration Day, and I said how you—Grant—said that I would.”
“‘Kay.”
“She asked who Grant was. I told her he used to work here—for the other company. Now she thinks I’m a corporate spy.”
“She does, does she?”
“It’s what she said.”
He grabbed a French fry and stuffed it in his mouth. “A spy. That ought to keep her on her toes.”
“It just slipped out.”
“Practice, practice, practice.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“We got two weeks to get through. Then we’re done. From here on out, aliases only.”
“Sure.”
I pushed the last of the chicken around on my plate, but then gave up. I wasn’t hungry anyway. Grant finished his meal, and we went back to work.
***
Our shifted ended at midnight. We punched out at the time clock and changed in the locker room then headed out to the street. When we got to Grant’s SUV we slowed. Someone had stuck a brochure-sized piece of paper beneath the windshield wiper. Grant pulled it free and swore. He crumpled it in his fist and threw it to the ground, turning on his heel and stalking toward the back of the truck.
I bent forward and picked it up. It was a parking ticket.
“I shouldda known,” Grant muttered, facing away from me.
“Known what?”
He turned and came back, grabbing the ticket out of my hand. “This,” he held it up so I could see, “is all it takes. Now there’s proof we were here.”
The import of what he was saying sank in. I swallowed. “Inauguration’s still two weeks out.”
“I know.” He opened the car door and climbed inside. I took the passenger seat. “Makes you wonder what else can go wrong,” he said.
“It’s just a parking ticket.”
“And McVeigh was stopped over a stupid license plate.” He blew out a heavy sigh, running both hands over his head then shook it off. “S’alright. We can get through this.” He started the car and pulled into the street.
I stared at him, frowning. “Nathan Hale,” I said.
“Hmm?” He barely glanced at me.
“Martin keeps talking about Nathan Hale. I only regret I have but one life to give for my country. That sort of thing.”
“What’s your point?”
“This is a suicide mission. For Martin, and maybe us. But not for you, is it?”
He peered at me from the corner of his eye. After clenching his teeth a moment he said, “We’ve all got our roles to play.”
“And yours isn’t to die?”
“Not yet.”
“So why is it ours?”
Thirty-Seven
“You’re the smart one. Why don’t you tell me?”
I stared at him a minute, then blurted, “Well, it isn’t because I want to.”
“Okay.”
“But there’s no way out.”
He smirked. “‘Course there is.”
“They will catch us.”
“I don’t doubt that.”
“So how are you going to get away with it?”
“You got three choices, Cherry. You can surrender. You can run—”
“Or you can fight,” I finished.
“Exactly.”
“So, you plan on going down in a blaze of glory?”
“Hell no! I don’t plan on going down at all.”
I shook my head and sank into my seat. Propping my elbow on the window, I stared out the window and said, “You really think you can win.”
“Yep.”
“Against the United States of America?”
“Absolutely.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Maybe. But you got to believe. If the Sons of Liberty hadn’t thought they could win their independence, would they have fought the war?”
I watched the street pass by us as we sped toward Martin and Jerry. Grant’s question hung in the air like Damocles’ sword, filling me with dread. I clearly saw where Grant was going with this, but what did that say about Martin?
“Come on, Cherry,” he said. “What do you think?”
“I guess not.”
“Some would have.”
“Well, yeah, I suppose.”
“Fact is: they knew they could win. They believed in it. Their cause was just. Call it faith, call it confidence. Hell, call it arrogance. They believed they could win—even against overwhelming odds, even against the greatest superpower the world had ever known. The British Empire could’ve quashed the American rebellion like a bug, but they were divided, and that made them weak.”
“So because America’s divided, you think you’ve got a chance at winning?”
“Yes I do. I think when it comes down to it, they ain’t gonna want to fight. Fact is, by the time they catch up with us, there’ll be way too many brushfires to put out. Sovereign states will be in their crosshairs by then. Places like Montana and Idaho.”
He fell silent. I looked up, watching the streetlights pass overhead. I still felt the sword hanging there, just waiting to fall.
Finally, I said, “Why doesn’t Martin talk like this?” When he didn’t answer, I looked his way. “Grant?”
“You should probably ask Martin that.”
“I’m asking you.”
“Well, don’t.”
“Why is Martin on a suicide mission, and not you?”
He swore. “You don’t listen, do you, Cherry?”
“We’re talking about my brother, Grant. He’s the only family I got. Do you have any idea what that means?”
He fell silent.
“Come on, Grant.”
After a moment, he said, “Yeah. I know what it means.” He rubbed his nose. “Got me a sister down Pensacola. Ain’t seen her in, like, four years. Last I knew, she was trying to support a brood of kids and her out-of-work husband. Mom’s in a nursing home in Jacksonville. Alzheimer’s. Don’t even know her own name no more. Dad split years ago. Don’t know nothing more than that. He could be dead for all I care.”
I wondered why he was giving me his family history, but felt more surprised by what it revealed. “You’re from Florida?”
“Born and raised.”
“What are you doing in New York?”
He shrugged. “Ain’t got much use for Florida. Guess I wanted to get as far away from there as I could. After I hooked up with your brother, New York just seemed like a natural choice. Like it was meant to be.” He looked my way and smiled.
Wonderful.
I had to steer this conversation back on course. “I’m glad you understand where I’m coming from. Martin’s all I got. We need each other. So please: why doesn’t Martin want to fight?”
He pursed his lips, his eyes raised off the road somewhat. “I ain’t saying he’s a coward. Far from it. But you’re right. He don’t want to fight. He don’t expect to make it out. ‘Ain’t no movement like this ever got started without martyrs.’ Those are his words. I don’t pretend to understand it. I don’t go much in for psychology and stuff, but maybe its one of them Messiah complexes. I think he thinks his life won’t matter unless he dies for a cause.”
My voice sounded small. “That’s just not true.” I couldn’t believe what he was saying. Wouldn’t believe it.
“I’ve seen it before. Hardest thing about fighting the Hajjis? Every one of them’s willing to die for their cause. Become Shaheed. Martyrs. Get their seventy-two virgins.” He snorted. “I don’t know if they really believe that stuff or not, but you got to admire their faith. Something they’re willing to die for. It shakes some guys up, and they can’t do it no more. Others—guys like me, I reckon—we’re just more than willing to oblige them. But then there’s guys like Martin. They get inspired.”
“This isn’t right.”
“What ain’t right?”
“Martin wanting to die, that’s what. I mean, I’ve heard of suicide by cop, but suicide by country?”
“You don’t get it.”
“And you do? What’s to get?”
He shook his head. I noticed we were slowing down, approaching the Newseum. Two figures waited for us by the curb, hidden in darkness. Just before he pulled in to pick them up, Grant said, “I probably could explain it, Cherry, but I don’t think I could make it make sense to you. There’s things you ain’t been through. Things Martin hasn’t told you about. Hell, he’s barely told me. You want to know any more what’s going on in his head, you’re gonna have to talk to him. And you’re gonna have to be real patient, and let him tell you in his own way, and in his own time.”
The doors opened, and Martin and Jerry clambered into the truck. Jerry opened his mouth in a tremendous yawn as he closed the door.
“Take this boy home and put him to bed,” Martin commanded. I looked at his eyes. They were lit with manic humor, punch-drunk, like he hadn’t slept in days. His eyes flit about the interior of the truck then settled steadily on me.
“What?” he demanded.
“Nothing.”
I turned around and stared at the murky sky punctured by streetlights that only made the darkness blacker and veiled the stars. Grant shifted into gear and took us back to the hotel.
***
Late that night, or early morning—I couldn’t tell which—I climbed out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom. Around me, the men had snored fitfully while I’d tossed and turned. After several hours, I gave up. Closing the door, I flicked on the light and stared at my reflection in the mirror. The sallow light from the fluorescent tube above the sink gave my face a yellow pallor, corpse-like. Deep lines marred the corners of my eyes and forehead. I felt bone-weary, beyond exhausted, ready to cry, my heart thudding in my chest.
I ran some water and cupped my hands beneath the faucet, splashing some on my face and taking a long draught. It tasted oddly metallic.
My mind spun. Everything I wanted to do, everything I’d hope to accomplish by signing up with Martin and Grant, all of it was seeping away from me, like trying to hold water in my hands. I remembered Jerry’s dry observation in his shop just a few days ago—though it felt like forever: ‘You went along with it to stop it? How’s that working out for ya?’
It wasn’t working out at all. Martin’s madness—his drive to self-destruction—he’d infected me with it, and I was inexorably losing my mind. At first, I’d thought he was drowning in his anger, and as I’d tried to help him, he’d pulled me down as well. In a way, I could live with that.
But this was different. Martin wasn’t drowning in the abyss. He was diving headfirst into it, swimming deliberately for the bottom. The longer I held onto him, the deeper I plunged. I had to let him go, or the pressure alone would crush me.
I just didn’t know if I could.
Thirty-Eight
I must’ve fallen asleep in the toilet, because the next thing I knew, Jerry was pounding on the door, shouting to me.
“Come on, Petey! You gotta be done by now!”
Pushing sleep from my eyes, I rose unsteadily to my feet, grasping the sink for support. My leg and the side of my face were asleep, threatening to break forth into pins and needles as the blood rushed back into them. I had a distinct cross-hatch pattern on my face where I’d lain against the tile.
The door-pounding resumed, like he was ready to break it down. I undid the latch.
Jerry thrust into the room, his hands pressed against his crotch. “What the hell?” he demanded, flipping up the toilet seat.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, rubbing my numb face. “Fell asleep.”
“Just get out! I don’t need a frickin’ audience.”
I turned and left as the sound of a geyser erupted behind me. I shuffled into the room, barely glancing at Martin and Grant, who were busily pulling on their clothes for breakfast.
“How long’ve you been up?” Martin said.
“Don’t know. Didn’t sleep right last night.”
“You fall asleep in there?” said Grant. When I nodded numbly, they broke into laughter.
Martin grabbed the door and hollered out to Jerry, “How ya doing in there, buddy? Everything coming out okay?”
“Frickin’ moron!” he called back.
“Told ya not to drink that much coffee.”
I crawled onto the bed and lay there, grateful for the warmth and softness of the sheets. Daylight assaulted my eyes, pouring in from the opened vertical blinds, and I wrinkled my nose in disgust.
Presently, Jerry came out of the bathroom. “Didn’t know captain potty-head would fall asleep on the toilet,” he said.
I ignored him.
“You sounded like you were gonna chip the porcelain,” Martin observed.
“Thought I was. We ready?”
Grant said, “Hey Cherry, you coming?”
“For what?” I answered, without turning over.
“Breakfast.”
I swallowed. My stomach rumbled, but the swirl in my head held me down. “Not yet,” I mumbled.
“What he say?”
Martin leaned over me. “You comin’, sleeping beauty?”
“In a bit. Just go without me. I’ll catch up.”
“Alright. Suit yourself.”
A moment later, I heard the door close behind me, and silence descended on the room. I closed my eyes, grateful for the chance to get some proper rest.
My eyes were barely closed a minute when they flashed open again, an epiphany resounding in my head, its urgency driving slumber far away.
There was no better time. The opportunity beckoned me out of bed. I dressed quickly, splashed more wate
r on my face, and left the room. Down the hall, away from the dining room, a set of stairs led to a back door opening to the street. I took them two at a time, pressing through the crash bar on the door at a dead run. A block away, nestled beside a lamppost near the corner across the street, the object of my haste.
I hesitated only a moment. Then, like something else took over, guiding my arm, I reached forward and grabbed the phone, putting the receiver to my ear. Fishing a quarter from my pocket, I dropped it into the coin slot and dialed three simple digits that would change everything.
“9-1-1 Emergency. How may I assist you?”
I swallowed, the words I meant to say dying in my throat. I pulled the phone away, ready to hang up.
“Are you there? Can I help you?”
The voice sounded tiny, far away. My finger hesitated just above the hook switch. It would be rude to hang up. And they’d probably send someone to investigate.
“Y-yes, I’m sorry,” I said. “There’s going to be an attempt on the President.”
“Could you repeat that, please?”
“Someone’s going to try to kill the President! You have to stop them. The inauguration. Just ta-take it indoors or something.”
There was a brief moment when I thought they’d already hung up. Then I wished they had. “Stay on the line please.”
I hung up. Quickly. I stared at the phone, panting. Glancing both ways down the street, I didn’t see anyone yet, but that didn’t mean the cops weren’t already on their way. I turned back to the hotel when it hit me.
I swore. “Fingerprints!”
Hastening back to the phone, I swabbed the handset, earpiece, mouthpiece, and hook switch with the end of my shirt, hoping I removed all the prints from the phone. Of course, they were still on the quarter inside the phone, but there wasn’t anything I could do about that now. I turned and ran back to the hotel.
Buzzing back in through the rear entrance, I took the steps two at a time, hurling myself up the stairs. Reaching our room, I tore inside, launching myself at the toilet, where I threw up whatever remained of last night’s dinner. Exhausted, I sank back against the wall.
What had I done?
I grabbed a bit of toilet paper to wipe my mouth.
What choice did I have? Maybe Martin wanted to go down in a blaze of glory, but I’d be damned if I was going to let him do it that easily. This had to stop. All of it. If the Secret Service did their jobs, they’d move the inauguration indoors, and that’d be the end of it. For a while, at least. Grant and Martin would probably have to figure out a more opportune time, but that’d give me just that much more time to try and talk him out of it, to convince them of taking a different road.
The Spirit of Resistance Page 20